


The Seal Lord

by Papillonae



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Accidental Plot, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Asexual Character, Eventual Romance, Family Secrets, M/M, Selkies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-02-09 14:07:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18639640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Papillonae/pseuds/Papillonae
Summary: A foreign lord has a chance meeting with a creature thought only to exist in songs and legends, only to find that such a legend is rooted in greed, betrayal, and a long-held family secret.





	1. Winds and Waves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Felicja_Julieanne (CasualMaraudering)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CasualMaraudering/gifts).



> Hello! This is the first fic I've posted in a long while! This began as just a simple one-shot that suddenly gained a plot... oops! This is an AU I had hoped to write a while ago, and it'll serve as a nice little project (hopefully between 3-5 chapters) as I continue to plow through my longer works...
> 
> This is also written as a gift for Fela (Felija_Julieanne), aka the IrePol Queen, as a congratulations for graduating and also as a means to keep her sane as she studies for her finals! :)
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

_“Beckon The Sea,_ __  
I'll Come To Thee…  
Shed Seven Tears,   
Perchance Seven Years...”

\- Terri Farley, _Seven Tears Into the Sea_

* * *

 

It was the loneliness of silence that drew the first sigh from his chest.

Feliks had been no stranger to this feeling – suffocation and release. It started when the walls caved in, when the people crowded around him, pressing themselves to him with elbows and knees. There was always a stifling heat, a clammy sweat beneath his collar. Seated between the British lords who had graciously hosted him, he ached for a silence so lonely, an open space where he could stop pretending to be what he wasn’t.

_Breathe…_

No silence spoke so loud as the haze of soft lights and wine from the ballroom, surrounded by men who did not speak a word of his native tongue. Proper English still rolled awkwardly from his lips, all subtleties of polite and ‘princely’ etiquette were lost on him. He certainly looked the part, but the fancy doublet adorned with beads and braids was suffocating.

_Breathe… breathe…_

The advances of women and men alike, their floral cologne and wandering hands, nearly choked him. Every laugh behind him, every sideways glance in his peripheral was a jab at his ignorance – a joke.

He couldn’t breathe.

He had to get away.

The summer breeze, the smell of sea salt lingering on the air, offered a healing balm as he fled from the gala, his legs trembling as they carried him down the grassy knoll. Feliks looked out to the horizon, a golden thread connecting the sea to the sky bobbing in his vision. As the red sun washed the clouds in orange and pink, Feliks looked to the dark waters, at the gentle ebb of the sea foam as it left dark veins of seaweed on the shoreline. He trudged through the wet sand and threw himself upon a rock, the sea spray cool upon his brow.

The loneliness of silence released his lungs, and the first tears rolled down his cheeks.

Feliks held himself. Though the air was cool, by the water it was freezing. The wind whipped through his hair. He had felt so lost, so alone in a foreign place. Being the honored guest of British lords came with such expectation and grandeur, and he was none of these things.

He searched for his face in the water, but the waves were too choppy. He watched his own tears fall, barely a ripple in the waves, counting them as best he could: _…5…6…7…_

It was hard to say how much time had passed, or how many tears he’d wept. _Get it together_ , he told himself, slapping his cheeks until his senses returned. Feliks breathed in the salty air, filled his lungs with the chill so deep it almost hurt. While he had the time, he listened to the hush of the waves against the shore, the cry of the gulls overhead…

The airy sound of a tin whistle playing close by…

Feliks turned toward the sound. In the haze of sundown, he saw him: a tall man with copper red hair bent over a stone, his feet buried in the sand. He was soaked to the bone, dressed in nothing but what appeared to be a large fur skin, glossy from the salt water. As he played, his thin fingers fluttered over the sound holes, trilling every other note. It was a song Feliks did not recognize, yet felt drawn to all the same.

As he approached, the sand shuffled noisily beneath his shoes. The strange man drew away from the flute and looked over his shoulder at Feliks, a boyish smile curled on his lips.

“Ah, so you’re the one what called for me,” he said cheerfully in a lilting accent that made his words almost song-like.

Feliks averted his gaze as the man stood, his fur skin slipping to reveal more of his freckled stomach. He ignored how his face burned with discomfort. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“I can smell them on you,” the man continued, with one hand keeping himself modest while the other clenched his whistle. The sand caked his feet as he came forward.

“Smell what?”

Before Feliks could retort, the man was before him. Up close, he smelled strongly of the sea, all salt and brine. He swiped away a stray tear from Feliks’s face and put the finger to his mouth for a taste. As Feliks was left stuttering, the man’s eyes lit up and he grunted in approval.

“Yes! These’re the tears what brought me to shore!”

A series of laughs shook his belly as he walked in circles, his arms outstretched, taking in the sights and the sounds. He slipped his tin whistle into the folds of his fur skin and slicked his hair away from his face in what looked like disbelief. He quickly turned his attentions back to Feliks, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Quick, tell me: what year is it?”

Feliks looked him in the eyes, afraid to look anywhere else. “Uh… the year is…”

“Ah, you needn’t tell me! I can’t believe it’s gone by so fast!” Another laugh seemed to erupt from him. “I mean, normally it’s a fisherman’s wife what calls me, but for you,” his gaze raked up and down Feliks’s body with consideration, “I think I could make an exception—"

Feliks shrugged himself away from his grip. “What is going on?” he asked, flustered and feeling panicked once more, “nothing you say makes any sense – I mean, _who are you?_ ”

The man stood, perplexed at having been rejected. Soon after, there came a clamor from the hill, a large flickering of lantern flame climbing the wall of the seaside shack as a multitude of voices approached:

“Search the shore! Lord Łukasiewicz is a guest of the Master’s and must be found unharmed!”

Feliks shuddered. _A search party._ Had he been gone that long? Or, perhaps, the way he had left the gala had been a cause for concern. He turned to the man. It took every ounce of courage for him to assert himself:

“If you leave now, I won’t tell them how you harried me here.”

The man only shrugged, clutching his skins as he sauntered over to his side. “Would that I could leave,” he explained, “but until three suns have set, I cannot leave your side.”

“Leave me alone!” Feliks shouted, his voice carrying over toward the search party.

The man rolled his eyes. “Listen, _you’re_ the one who cried exactly seven tears into the sea!” he insisted, “if you didn’t want the company of a selkie, then you shouldn’tve come here!”

“Wait – what?”

There was a cry from the hill – _“Over there!”_ – and Feliks felt his throat tighten. He glanced between the approaching party and the man, who was giving him an exasperated look. The search party would no doubt imprison him for indecency and attempted kidnapping of a foreign envoy. Of course, his manner was strange, but there was something about it that seemed decidedly honest.

In that moment, Feliks surprised himself: he grabbed at the strange man’s wrist and tugged him away. He also surprised himself in the moments following – doubling back toward the search party, grabbing for the door of the old shack where they might come around the corner at any moment. The door flung open and Feliks first threw the man in before he quickly closed and held the door behind them.

_Breathe…_

The last light of day shone through the cracks of the walls. The search party had just rounded the corner and were no doubt searching the shore. Feliks desperately and silently tried to catch his breath and nervously glanced toward the flimsy glass window, as if someone would look in at any moment.

The seaside shack had a small table and chair in the middle of the room, with a small cot and a dresser in the far corner. The thick smell of wood rot and dust in the air could only mean that the shack had been abandoned for quite some time, perhaps the home of a sailor who had often gone out to sea.

Feliks was brought away from his nerves as the man began to ransack the dresser, only to come up empty handed. He muttered a word Feliks did not recognize.

“What are you doing?” Feliks hissed under his breath.

“I’m trying to find a change of clothes.”

“No. First you tell me what I want to know.”

The man laughed quietly. “This isn’t how I expected our first time to go. I mean, usually these trysts are a casual affair and don’t involve running from officials—”

“ _Now._ ”

There was a pause, then a sigh. “Fine, m’lord. I’ll answer any questions you may have.”

Feliks sank a little against the door, his hand still clutching the handle to keep it shut. He could barely see the outline of the man in the shadows, the wet mop of hair and his gangly posture.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“My name is Seán.” The reply came with an amused chuckle.

Feliks was still on guard. “Okay… Seán. Now kindly explain to me what you were going on about on the shore. The tears, why you asked for the year – what on Earth a _Selkie_ is—”

Seán cut him off with another laugh. “Oh no… don’t tell me, you don’t even know what you’ve gotten yourself into, m’lord?”

“Do I look like I know what I got myself into?” Feliks asked through gritted teeth, his eyes still scanning the windows.

There was a silence, then a scuffling of a chair being drawn up toward the table. Then, with a soft voice, Seán began to sing:

 

_“I am a man upon the land,_

_And a selkie on the sea so fair,_

_And when I’m far, far from land,_

_My home it is in Connemara._

_If ever you find yourself lonesome,_

_Then hasten your grief to the sea,_

_If you cast seven tears to the waters_

_If my seven years pass, yours I’ll be.”_

 

Feliks had almost forgotten himself in the song, recognizing the melody as the one Seán played on his tin whistle earlier. He found himself staring hard at his silhouette as he sang and drummed his fingers on the table. In spite of himself, his face flushed.

“So… what is a selkie?” he asked dumbly.

“Selkie folk,” Seán began, “are all different. Where I come from, generally humans call us _merrow_ , or specifically for our women, _maighdeann-ròin_. The merfolk, the seal maidens. We’re called different names no matter where you go.”

As Seán stood from his chair, Feliks noticed him hitching up his skins.

“I shed this skin to become human,” Seán continued, causing Feliks to avert his gaze once more. The reaction drew a short laugh. “I can also wear it to become a seal.”

Feliks cleared his throat. “So you mean to say that I brought you here because I cried?”

“Yes. Seven tears is the standard to summon a selkie.”

“What do you do on land?”

“I take a human lover, of course.”

Feliks nearly choked on his reply. “I had no idea…”

There was a silence.

Seán spoke, “Did you wish for me to—”

“No!” Feliks squeaked, “I-I mean, I have no interest in that sort of thing…”

Seán hummed thoughtfully. “Either way, this poses a problem for me.”

“How?”

The sun began to dwindle through the cracks of the walls. Seán sighed. “Because I only have three days. In that time, I will grow weaker, and will die if I don’t wear my skin and take my leave. Then I’ll be barred from land for seven more years.”

Feliks struggled to understand the rules: seven tears, seven years… now three days? “What business do you have on land?”

“…I haven’t seen my family in years,” Seán admitted quietly. “I had hoped to take a lover so I could stay. It would be the only way I didn’t have to leave or die.”

“Oh…” Feliks’s voice grew soft. “I’m so sorry.”

Seán went back to scavenging for clothes. “Well! I shouldn’t keep you, m’lord. I’ll try to find something to make myself modest.”

The defeat in his voice tugged at Feliks’s chest. As much as he sympathized with his plight and wished to help, he wasn’t quite sure how. His mind raced. He could accept his offer, or walk away… be a selkie’s human lover… or return to the castle…

“…Take my clothes,” he blurted out.

Seán stopped rummaging. “I’m sorry, what?”

Before Feliks could talk himself out of it, he was already stripping himself of his doublet. “Take my clothes,” he said, “that way, you’ll be decent. Stay here until they are gone. I’ll stage it as if I were robbed and the man got away.”

Seán held up his hands, surprised at this turn of events. “Wait, wait! Are you sure that’s a wise plan?”

“What you do from there is up to you. Go find your family. Sneak into the castle, for all I care. Just allow me this one kindness, and be on your way.”

As he pulled his breeches off and kicked off his shoes, Feliks felt something heavy and warm drape across his shoulders. It smelled of sea salt and something musty.

“Let me do you one kindness of my own.” Seán’s voice was almost a whisper. His breath came hot against Feliks’s ear, and the closeness made his skin prickle. He continued, “Wear this to keep warm. Keep it safe for me until I return for it tomorrow.”

Feliks patted the sealskin, felt its soft, slick texture, and nearly shrugged it off in surprise. “I can’t—without it, you’ll—”

Before he could fully retort, he felt the collision of lips on lips, a light knocking of teeth as Seán kissed him hard and eager, the taste of salt and something vaguely sweet, before shoving him out of the shack door.

Feliks hit the sand with a loud grunt and, too stunned to even speak, let the lights of the search party surround and escort him back up the hill to the castle.


	2. Sands and Shore

The next day, Feliks was fitted with a new set of clothes – this time the attire was much less decorative, instead offering more functionality and comfort. Rolling his shoulders, he stood before his own reflection in the vanity, observing the way his hair fell with a slight flip outward. He corrected it countless times with his fingers before giving up.

His eye caught the sealskin that he had draped over his bedpost. It had since dried from that night, yet it still retained a certain shine. The guards thankfully let him keep it to keep himself modest as they escorted him back to the guest chambers.

Feliks lifted it, its heaviness and warmth still impressive. As he put his nose to it and breathed in, he could smell the brininess of the seaweed from the day before and promptly picked out stray vegetation he had found flaked in the coat. He couldn’t quite wrap his mind around such nonsense he was being told last night – seals that could turn into men, men turning into seals… it just wasn’t possible. Like something out of a fairy tale. Perhaps he had just been a crazy, delirious man.

But then there was a melody just barely at the edge of his memory, sad and lilting like the ebb of the tide. He recalled the shock of fiery hair, the peppering of freckles on his shoulders, and a smell he couldn’t quite place, but could still definitely taste.

His fingers absently moved to his lips. Perhaps he had dreamed it…?

There suddenly came a loud knock at his door. Startled, he dropped the sealskin at the end of his bed in surprise as the door swung open to reveal an escort.

“Milord,” he said with a curt bow, “your presence is requested.”

As he walked up the grand staircase and down the hall, Feliks let his eye wander on the portraits. Many were of men and women he had never seen before – no doubt the ancestors of the young Lord whom sought his audience. There was what appeared to be a family portrait: four young boys with serious faces seated primly on stools, all of them with hair ranging from blonde to red. Feliks assumed with a passing thought that they were brothers.

The door to the private dining hall opened with a polite creak, and the escort made a curt bow. “Lord Łukasiewicz, if it pleases you.”

“Thank you. You may be excused.”

The escort gave another bow and ushered him into the room.

Lord Kirkland had not been what Feliks had imagined: he stood close to his height, perhaps a bit taller, and seemed all too serious. The fete last night brought with it many uproarious tales of the young Lord’s debauchery and inebriated adventure. Many stories had painted him favorably tall and handsome, with distinguished features. Aside from such prominent… eyebrows, Feliks could only paint the picture of Lord Kirkland as being rather tired looking.

Their eyes met, and the young Lord gave a rather gentlemanly smile. It seemed as though the stories did lend a bit more to his appearance than a first glance. “Welcome. Please, have a seat.”

Feliks took the chair closest to the door. Perhaps he had misjudged him.

“I must sincerely apologize for the events of last night,” Lord Kirkland explained as he seated himself at the other end of the table, “I’m sure being in a strange new land and then having some… some ruffian steal your clothes was not the most hospitable welcome.”

Servants quietly served them plates of leafy greens and dewy vegetables. Feliks waved his hands. “Please, don’t worry yourself about it. It was my fault for leaving the fete last night.”

Lord Kirkland tilted his head at this. “Was the party not to your liking?” he asked.

At this, Feliks could feel himself digging a hole. “No, no! The party was wonderful! I had just stepped out for air, is all. I am very grateful for your hospitality, my Lord—”

“Please, call me Arthur.”

“—Yes. Of course.” That comment had thrown Feliks entirely off his story, and it took a small moment of poking a tomato with a fork to recompose himself. “I only went down to the shore and had every intention of returning. Really, it is such a lovely place here.”

Arthur smiled, relieved. “If I may, I would be more than happy to accompany you on a tour of the city. No need for guards or escorts. Just a casual stroll between dignitaries. Certainly nothing like last night’s fete.”

“That is very kind of you.”

Feliks breathed a small sigh of relief and continued to peck at the salad. He studied the way Arthur held the fork in his hand and how it didn’t seem to tremble, studied how at ease his expression seemed as he talked evenly about everything his kingdom had to offer. How he wished to be anywhere near as eloquent and calm talking to strangers!

And soon, without thinking much on it at all, the two had a most pleasant conversation. Feliks asked questions. He answered the questions Arthur had for him. They made light jokes and expressed hope for mutual alliance over a midday lunch. It had been going swimmingly.

At least, until Feliks felt a particular flutter at his feet.

He looked down and noticed a small strip of parchment on the floor. The moment Arthur turned his attentions away while carrying on, Feliks bent down to pick it up. On the parchment was scrawled a simple, yet ominous message:

_Behind you._

…A joke? Did he dare?

His heart thrumming, Feliks dared a quick glance over his shoulder. He saw, in the faintest crack of the door, the red-haired man from yesterday – Seán – waving sheepishly at him.

Feliks felt his blood run cold.

“--Is everything all right?” Arthur asked, “you look unwell.”

“Yes!” Feliks squeaked, the parchment crackling loudly in his fist as he pocketed it. “I- I mean,” – he cleared his throat – “I suppose I am a bit fatigued.”

There was a genuine concern in Arthur’s eyes. “There is no need to trouble yourself with anything yet. Please take all the time you need to rest and recover. Once you are well, I will send an escort for you.”

He nodded, rising clumsily from his seat. When Arthur rose to assist him, Feliks was quick to raise his hands. “Please – I will be fine. I thank you again for your kindness. This spell will pass quickly, and when it does…”

In his peripheral, he saw Seán waving frantically at him, motioning for him to leave the room.

“Right,” Arthur called after him with a cordial smile and a bow, “I will be waiting, my friend.”

With a short bow of his own, Feliks quickly excused himself.

“ _What are you doing here?_ ” Feliks snapped in a hush, dragging Seán by the arm away from the door.

“What am I doing here? You’re the one what still has my coat, m’lord,” Seán explained, clearly amused by how flustered Feliks had become. He raised an eyebrow. “Also, you were the one who suggested I sneak into the castle in the first place.”

“Well I didn’t think you’d actually do it!” Feliks argued, “I didn’t think I would be seeing you again!”

Seán laughed coolly as he was dragged further down the hall, away from earshot. “You have my coat,” he repeated.

“You gave it to me!”

“You gave me your clothes!”

“You can’t just do whatever you like!”

Seán stood his ground and Feliks was tugged back a little. When he turned to look over his shoulder, he could see Seán, all sea-colored eyes and sincerity. He said softly, “For you, m’lord, I would do anything.”

Feliks tightened his grip. His cheeks prickled in a peculiar way that he wasn’t quite used to yet. “Don’t say things like that,” he stammered out, pulling him forward with a harsh and urgent motion, “you sound foolish.”

Their footsteps were a cacophonous, echoing clatter as they descended the grand staircase. Feliks made a dash for the guest chambers, heedless of how Seán nearly tripped on the last stair to keep up. When he grabbed the door handle, it took all his strength to throw him into the room and quickly slammed the door behind them.

Feliks wasted no time storming over to gather the bundle of sealskin in his arms, the effort causing some of it to spill over. “Here’s your coat,” he grumbled.

“Whoa, wait—”

“Now get out of here!”

Seán was about to protest, but grunted as the coat was shoved into his chest. Feliks was shoving him back toward the door, but he once more dug his heels in.

“Wait! I didn’t just come for the coat!”

“Then what else did you come here for?” Feliks snapped, wheeling him around to scrutinize him to his face, “did you come to humiliate me more? Make me out to be the fool? Make a disgrace and a mockery of me to Lord Kirkland and his court?”

Seán seemed incredibly confused by this outburst. “Humiliate you? Why would I do that?”

_Breathe._

Feliks tore at his hair, ran his fingers through it until it fell back in blonde feathery strands. “I don’t know! Maybe because I’m not from around here? Maybe because I’m so trusting and gullible and I don’t know what anything is? Isn’t it hilarious?”

“That’s…” Seán rubbed the back of his neck. “That sounds like something only an actual lunatic would do. I think maybe you’ve been overthinking this, m’lord.”

_Breathe._

Feliks finally sighed and slumped himself onto the edge of the bed. “Sorry. It’s just… ever since I came here, it seems as though everyone’s been laughing at me behind my back. It’s like there’s this big joke at my expense, and I have absolutely no idea what it is.” He pulled up his knees and hugged them, burying his face in them. “And then you show up, and you talk of _selkies_ and _tears_ and – I’m sorry, I guess I don’t know what to believe.”

There was a moment when the tightness in his chest released and Feliks became irreparably embarrassed for lashing out. The creeping heat of shame came up from his neck, and he was grateful that he had hidden his face in his knees. _Of course I’m overthinking things_ , he thought as he mentally kicked himself, _I always do_. He was also kicking himself for the tell-tale prickle at the corners of his eyes. It didn’t matter how mad he was, he would never be taken seriously for crying so much.

He felt a slight dip in the bedding as Seán sat beside him, though neither of them seemed to make a move to speak. Feliks peeked over at him and watched him dodging his gaze by looking anywhere else. He noticed how freckled his hands were as they held the sealskin coat in his lap, thumbs twiddling. Seán opened his mouth a few times, as if he were about to speak, but gave up each time. It made him seem honest.

But something kept egging Feliks on.

“That was my first kiss, you know.”

He felt Seán stiffen beside him, watched as he slowly turned toward him with an unmistakable expression of shock.

“Back at home, I’m the laughing stock of my family. I have no interest in marriage. I have no interest in heirs. The thought of my life being decided for me like that… it makes me uncomfortable.” Feliks rested his head on his knees. “I thought I could at least serve as an ambassador, that way I could still be of some use to my family and carry myself with some dignity. But now… here we are.” Feliks vaguely gestured at all of himself with a shrug and a short laugh.

“Now hold on a tic,” Seán sputtered, nearly rising to his feet, “if it weren’t for me you wouldn’t be in this mess.”

Feliks rolled his eyes. “Look, I gave you the clothes, okay? So just let it—”

He would have gone on, but the look on Seán’s face suddenly changed to that of horrible realization. The color drained from his cheeks and he stared dumbfoundedly at his hands.

“What is it?”

Seán struggled looking him in the eye.

“Just spit it out.”

“I was your first… and I never even asked your name…”

A very long silence fell between them. It was only punctured by the sound of Feliks cracking up with laughter.

“Hey! It’s not funny! I’m serious!”

“ _That’s_ why you look worried all of a sudden?” Feliks hugged his knees tighter in between laughter, “you make it sound like you actually _did_ lie with me!”

Seán’s face darkened considerably. “You don’t understand! I never used to care about things like the names of the women who call me!”

“And did they know yours?”

This gave Seán pause. He held up a finger and waggled it a few times as he tried to recall. “Well… no. They never asked me.”

Feliks choked back another laugh and relaxed his legs, letting them hang off the edge of the bed. “You know, you’re strange. Yesterday you were all but bragging about your conquests, and today you’re questioning every single one.”

“Ha ha. I guess I am.”

Feliks watched as he ran a hand through his hair and rubbed at the nape of his neck. Maybe they had gotten off on quite an awkward foot. After all, it wasn’t every day that young lords met strange naked men wrapped in sealskins by the sea. Even if he wasn’t quite sure what a _selkie_ was, or if any of it was real or just an elaborate joke – maybe just this once, he could suspend his disbelief? Bite back the uneasiness that always seemed to tremble beneath his skin?

“I’m Feliks, by the way,” he said.

Seán looked down at the hand he had offered, then looked back up at him with a good-humored grin as he took it. “It’s nice to meet your acquaintance, Feliks.”

They both shook hands firmly, if a bit on the dramatic side, and laughed in spite of themselves.

“So I suppose you’ll be wanting a tour of the place, then?” Seán asked, suddenly pulling Feliks up from the bed with him.

“Wait, what?”

“Oh, come on, it’ll be fun! I think you’ll find me a much better guide than my brother. For one, I know all of the great places to go and eat, and also where to get it all for free. And for another, I’m clearly the more handsome one. Wouldn’t you agree, Feliks?”

Feliks felt helpless against his boundless enthusiasm, his toes tripping over themselves as he struggled to keep up. In all the excitement of Seán leading him effortlessly out of the palace and toward the central square, neither of them seemed to remember the sealskin coat, which fell in a heap on the floor where Seán was sitting.

In the marketplace crowd surrounded by passing strangers and the scattered music of street performers, Feliks finally pulled hard against Seán’s grip as he managed to put two and two together.

“Wait – did you say brother?”


End file.
